


One Bullet Short

by Hetafan27



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Duelling, M/M, Ross making bad decisions, Slow Burn, Someone Help Them, lots of lying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2019-08-23 19:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16624853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hetafan27/pseuds/Hetafan27
Summary: Takes place after season 4 episode 7. After Ross' duel with Adderley and Geoffrey Charles' blunder, George is more intent on bringing down Ross than ever before, to the point of challenging him to a duel himself. Ross' pride gets in the way once again and he accepts, resulting in him only half winning and getting stuck taking care of the injured man in secret.





	1. Settling a Fight

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The plot and characters of Poldark belong to Winston Graham and BBC. I own nothing but the plot of this fanfiction.

_What are you going to do Ross, shoot me?_ Those words filled with stone cold hatred followed Ross all day, the implications too deep to ignore. George’s moods had never spelt good news for Ross, but this latest phase seemed to hold more trouble that the others. It came without warning or reason, and rather than work behind the scenes like George loved to do, he showed no hesitation about showing his anger off in public, whether it was through violence or verbal insults. He had no shame about losing his cool in front of important people and ladies in the street, and that meant so much more could happen than dirty deals and surprise debts.

To make matters worse, Ross was alone. Unlike with his quarrel against Adderley, Dwight was not there to give him the advice of a level headed friend and professional. Ross was a bit eased at Demelza not being alone on her journey home to Cornwall, but he wished at the same time that it had been Caroline that had gone with her. At this point in time, he had no one to consult immediately about George’s inexplicable rage, and while he would never admit it out loud, Ross was hesitant to trust his own instincts. They had a knack for getting him into trouble, and being at the spotlight of attention after Adderley’s death, now was not the time to cause more of it.

For now though, he had to focus on his own appearances. The suspicion of his latest duel was dying down the tiniest bit, as politicians and party goers game him the occasional nod and smile, and let him on his way just as normal. London was just as lively as ever, and the gardens where more refined company could be found were still bright and alive. At every turn, gentleman played cards and laughed over whiskey, ladies walked in circles around the fountain gossiping about the guests around them, and exotic performers showed off their talents in hopes of a charitable coin. Ross weaved through them all, looking for Caroline or Geoffrey-Charles, any familiar face he could join so as not to appear alone. He didn’t want to be cornered by an opponent in an awkward conversation, or worse, by a furious George.

His hopes were dashed though as he violently brushed shoulders with another man, who also appeared in a hurry. He turned his head, ready to apologize, but upon seeing a head of light curls and a trademark red suit, his sweat ran cold and the polite words escaped him.

“Well Ross, you seem pent up. Care to take it out on me? We could finish what we started before Elizabeth’s fainting interrupted us.”

“George,” Ross nodded rather stiffly, “There will be no need for that. I was only looking for someone, and I was not paying attention. You have my apologies,” he fought not to choke on the words, wanting so much more to snap at the shorter man and demand answers for his behavior. It seemed like that’s what George wanted him to do as well, for a disappointed look passed his features before he shifted a bit closer to him,

“Very well, perhaps not with our fists. I’ve heard you prefer to settle arguments with pistols, anyway.”

Ross took a sharp breath through his nose, every fiber of his being already wanting to pummel this sorry excuse of a man, but some miracle held him back.

“That’s the second time you imply that today George, and I don’t find it funny. Do you wish to talk? We could go somewhere more private if so, but this cannot continue. Someone will be suspicious-”

“They should be! And it is natural for the guilty to feel weary of others’ suspicions, so I’m not afraid of drawing attention to ourselves.” Ross’ fingers twitched, and he raised his arm with intent to grab George by the throat but halted half way when a band of women brushed past them. He gave them a strained smile as they apologized, then turned back to George, who still had his head held high to look at Ross square in the eyes.

“Come now George,” he breathed out wearily, “I cannot amend a fault of which I am not aware of. Tell me what this is about, and we’ll see what can be done.” The moment those words escaped his lips, he knew he had dug himself into a hole. George’s eyes flashed in the darkness, the reflection of a nearby performer’s fire shining off of them and giving him an uncharacteristic aura of true danger.

“You know full well what you have done, you only choose not to say it out loud. I don’t care about your apologies and lies anymore, Ross. This can only be settled the same way you settled things with Adderley; meet me tomorrow at dawn in the nearby park with your best pistols. You’ll find me by the river, surely there’ll be no boats at that hour.”

“George-” His weak protests were cut off as he continued,

“If you wish to be rid of me and my hate for you, you’d best be prepared to kill me Ross.” His jaw was set in stubbornness, his feet tightly drawn together and Ross couldn’t help but notice how even his fingers clenched into fists as he relayed his instructions. He was obviously nervous, and yet one couldn’t tell it just by looking at his face alone. It truly was the only way it seemed.

“Very well then. Who will count?”

“We will, together. I won’t trust anyone from you, and I don’t have any men I trust enough with me in London. It will only be you and me, just as it always should have been.”  
Ross’ eyes widened at the preposterous words. George may not trust Ross, but how was he supposed to trust George to step away and count as well? “You’ve gone mad, surely there is someone who could do it.”

“Who then Ross, Geoffrey-Charles? The boy would blabber the truth to the very next gentleman he met in the street. Dwight would only try to stop you.”

“Dwight is in Cornwall with Demelza,” Ross interrupted, though he wasn’t sure why he gave away the fact that his most reliable friend had left him prone in London. “Are you suggesting we host a duel stepping backwards and watching the other man the whole time?”

“If that is what it takes, then yes, that is exactly what I am suggesting. No doctor present either. Whatever happens happens, and whoever wins walks away free of witnesses and potential tattletales.” With that, George held out a pale hand, “Are we in agreement?”

Ross flicked his eyes to the outstretched hand and back into George’s fiery eyes, then grasped it in a firm shake, “Agreed.”

It was as if Ross had gone back in time. The park looked the same this dawn as it did the last, with morning dew clinging to blades of grass and a light mist reflecting the sun surrounding the trees. He wore the same boots, the same tattered brown overcoat over his clothes, and held the same pistols as he had that day. The only thing that was different were his images of Demelza. Before dueling Adderley, he had imagined her in the flowers back in Cornwall, with a bright smile and endearing giggles. Now he saw her as cold and distant, doing mundane things as feeding the children and shoveling hay into Darkie’s feeder, not sparing a single look towards him and her frown never easing off her face.

He knew it was his fault, and he wondered why he could never make Demelza truly happy. Every time she reached out to him, he hurt her one way or another. Every time he came to her with intentions of comfort or consulting, he left her having made everything worse. He knew this would be one of those moments. He had been lucky enough to survive the first fight, but another? Against George no less, and without Dwight to heal and without a counter to check their manners. The odds were stacked against him, only adding as Ross began to ask himself questions like whether George had been practising or if he intended on cheating and shooting him square in the chest before they reached five counts…  
When he reached the river he found George overlooking it with his hands behind his back, pistols on the ground at his feet. His hair was a mess and even from here Ross could tell that his necktie was crooked. He wondered if he had slept at all last night, and could only tell he hadn’t waited here all night due to his change of clothes. The red suit shirt had been replaced with a grey one of obvious quality, complemented with matching pants and a silk white undershirt.

Ross stood still for a moment, wondering if he would notice his presence. Later he would think back to this moment and realize that he could have shot him dead behind his back, but at the time it never crossed his mind. Eventually George tore himself away from the river to face Ross, giving him a solid glare before bending to pick up his pistols. “Ready to begin?”

“Straight to the point. You’re sure there is no compromise to be had?”

“Quite. We’ll face each other and take ten paces backwards.”

“Only ten?”

“I want this to be over with.” George came to stand toe to toe with Ross, and he could plainly see how clumsily he walked. This close together, and now in the daylight, Ross wondered how long George had sported such heavy bags under his eyes and when he had become so pale, more than usual. He almost seemed ill, and Ross’ worries about surviving were slimming, his concern leaning more towards his opponent.

Ross looked to his two pistols, and was about to place the left one down when George stopped him. “We’ll use both, one shot from each.”

“Really George, what kind of duel is this?!”

“One where someone will die for certain and the other may walk away unscathed!” He all but screamed in his face. As much as Ross wanted to protest or back away altogether, he knew George would never back down now and that fighting with one gun wouldn’t change the fact that George had two. It would be stupid not to level the playing field as much as possible. With this in mind, he readjusted his grip on both guns and nodded to start counting.

 _One_  
_Two_  
_Three_

Ross had to steady himself as his heel hit a rock, not wanting to remove his gaze from George and certainly not wanting to fall in front of him.

 _Four_  
_Five_  
_Six_

George’s green eyes were boring into his own, as if he could shoot him with looks alone. Ross’ fingers gripped the guns until his knuckles turned white.

 _Seven_  
_Eight_  
_Nine_  
_Ten_

“Aim,” George’s voice was kept quiet, but to Ross, it sounded like a scream echoing in his head. His ears strained to hear the next command, sweat rolling off of him in waves. He was sure George would pull the trigger on his pistols without even calling to begin. Despite his chance to do just that, the banker took aim just as he did and said, “fire.”

With as much speed as the weapon allowed, Ross shot his first bullet, then his second without waiting to see where the first shot hit. George’s first pistol let out a plume of smoke, indicating he had fired, however Ross never felt the bullet. The smoke from his weapons blinded him a bit, but it was soon carried away by the wind. His whole body was tense, waiting for George’s second shot, but it never came.

When his blurry mind focused enough to take a good look at his opponent, he could plainly see the crimson red blooming to the left of his abdomen. George’s face was completely blank, mouth hanging slightly open and eyes staring blankly in front of him. One of his hands had dropped a gun to reach for the wound, and when even more blood seeped through the side of his necktie, he fell to the ground.


	2. Hiding the Evidence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The plot and characters of Poldark belong to Winston Graham and BBC. I own nothing but the plot of this fanfiction.

Ross’ legs moved without his knowledge, and he found himself clumsily catching the man’s head before it connected with the grass. He wasn’t thinking about the second gun- the bullet still loaded inside of it- as it was cast away when George’s hand went limp. Ross adjusted him better in his lap to asses the damage, praying he was just in shock and that it was only graze wounds that stained his shirt with blood, but the soldier inside him knew deep down that no superficial wound would result in this much of it running down his shirt and seeping through his fingers in pulses.

“George, can you hear me?” He asked stupidly as he wrestled with his folded cravat, trying to get a view for the neck wound. It was the most worrying, being so close to the artery…

“Ross, what are you doing?” He rasped, causing the blood to run faster.

“Trying not to let you die,” He gritted through clenched teeth as the fabric gave way to reveal an angry strip of burned flesh. It didn’t look like there was a bullet entry, which automatically increased his chances, though the blood would still have to be stopped.

“That’s not what you’re supposed to do,” it was obviously difficult for him to talk, and Ross had no doubt that if he wasn’t busy closing the hole in his stomach he would be pushing him away. “J-just let me die with dignity!”

“Because bleeding out in a park is surely a dignifying death,” Ross bit out before glancing around for any onlookers. He was sure all he had to do was run to the street with his blood covered hands and yell for a carriage, and George would be whisked away to the nearest hospital. His own survival instincts kicked in though, as he realized how suspicious it would look, especially after Adderley’s death in the same location just days ago. No, a hospital was out of the question, but his damn morals made leaving him equally unacceptable.

“R-ross..?” The bitterness that George was holding onto was gone, replaced with glazed fear and droopy eyes. His skin was even more pale than usual, giving him an almost grey complexion.  
Ross did the only thing he could think of doing. He scooped up the smaller man in his arms like a husband would his wife, and made a mad dash through the park. He was aware of how George was jostling in his hold, but he couldn’t make him comfortable while running with all his might at the same time. His hotel wasn’t far, and it was in a quieter part of London. He had requested it that way during his first visit, wanting a break from the noisy crowds when he retired for the night, and he appreciated the decision now.

When he made it up the stairs and through the door, he let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. It was by the grace of God that no one appeared to have seen them, but he would have to not hear anything for the next week to be sure. For now he focused on the dead weight in his arms. Ross set George down in a chair while he rushed to rip the blankets on the bed apart. He was back at his side in an instant, moving him to the open bed, not even noticing how his soaked undershirt instantly left marks on the white sheets. Starting to notice how uncomfortably hot he was after running, Ross threw his coat across the room before pausing to look George over.

“George?” By now his eyes had closed, and he looked to be out cold. Not receiving a response confirmed it, and Ross cursed under his breath. He was completely unequipped in supplies and knowledge. George’s breaths were haggard and uneven, and his usually beautiful curls were reduced to a sweaty mess. By these signs and the relentless bleeding, Ross knew he had to act fast, but with what?

He knew he needed bandages, or at least something other than George’s ruined shirt. He tore the bloody undershirt off and tried not to stare at the wound, then did the same to his own shirt, stretching it like a towel and wrapping it as tight as he could around George’s abdomen. He then tucked the sheets around his sides with the same rough tightness, hoping that anything would stop the bleeding. As for the exposed and gruesome neck, Ross went for his drawers and brought out the first cravat he found, using it as a makeshift bandage.  
Having done all he could in that department, Ross tried to remember what else he should do. His mind grasped for memories of Francis’ duel, painful as the memory was, and what they had done for him afterwards. Water was always useful, right?

For that he would have to go downstairs. He grabbed his jacket from the floor and viciously tried to wipe the blood from his hands. It was harder to do dry, but he hoped in the poor morning light no one would notice. He would just have to be quick. He put on a new shirt, swiped his hair to the side in what he hoped looked decent enough, and made for the door.  
He nearly rammed into the housekeeper in the stairs. She seemed startled, “Oh my, Captain Poldark! Are you quite ready for breakfast? I thought you had already left, so I haven’t even started, but-”

“Breakfast would be wonderful, please,” he forced a smile, but to his dismay it must have not been convincing enough.

“If you don’t mind me asking, are you alright? You seem mighty worried.”

“I’m fine,” he forced a smile to prove it, “just don’t clean the room yet. My wife is still asleep, I don’t want her to be disturbed.” The excuse came out with no filter, and Ross felt panic wash over him as he wondered whether or not she already knew of Demelza’s departure.

“Miss Poldark has returned so soon?”

He mentally smacked himself. “Yes, she’s changed her mind. She loved your cooking too much!” The lie was getting deep, but still he received a warm smile and an enthusiastic nod.

“In that case, I’ll prepare a wonderful batch of eggs, fresh from the market!” With a curtsey, she turned to leave, calling over her shoulder, “Anything to drink?”

“Plenty of water would be appreciated.” Ross turned away too, retreating back into his room and rushing to George’s side. No signs of blood showed on the blankets, and only a small amount peeped through the makeshift bandage around his neck. It was a sign it had stopped.

The relief left him absolutely exhausted. Knowing he couldn’t fall asleep lest the housekeeper forget to knock, he chose to pace the room until food and water arrived.

This was exactly why he couldn’t be left alone to his own instincts. How he was dragged into this mess was beyond him, but he knew of two things: First, George couldn’t be trusted to a hospital, for they would surely ask what happened and George would be more than happy to sell him out. Second, while perhaps it was counterproductive to keeping himself safe, he could not let George die. He could only continue this haphazard care and hope that by the end of it all George would have enough gratitude to forget the whole mess.  
That, however, was highly unlikely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for continuing to read! Feel free to comment with criticism, responses, and suggestions below :)


	3. Alive, unfortunately

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot!

The smallest streak of sunlight managed to penetrate the space between the curtains, shining a pale light on George’s face. It lit up the red behind his eyelids, but he didn’t even squint. He felt as if his body was frozen in place, encased in a heavy stone that prevented him from doing anything but lie still and slowly gather his mind.

He became aware of the feeling of soft sheets under his fingertips and the smell of soup wafting from the nightstand. It was almost comforting, and it gave him enough reassurance to open his eyes. There was crust around the lids from being closed for so long, but with a few tired blinks the room around him came into focus. Sure enough there was a bowl of soup fuming beside the bed. Simple white walls framed the modest room, ruling out the possibility that he was in Turow. Then his gaze focused enough to make out the shadow at the foot of the bed, the shapes coming together to reveal none other than Ross Poldark staring intensely at him.

All at once George’s body sprang awake. Why Ross was in his room was beyond him, but the mere sight of the man reawakened a flame of anger inside him. He tried to sit up in the bed to look more intimidating, only to fall back to the sheets, stunned by the blinding pain in his abdomen. Ross was at his side in an instant, helping him back into a comfortable position.

“Be still! Lest the wounds open again.”

George winced in pain, his skull pounding relentlessly. He gingerly rested a hand on his stomach, only to find crude bandages wrapped tightly around his body. Flashes of what happened seeped into his memory; the duel in the park, a shot of blinding pain, Ross catching him…

“You should have left me to die, that was the agreement. I should have known you would break the laws.” He tried to put contempt and malice behind his words, but with his senses returning and his wounds becoming more and more noticeable, his voice came out soft and wavering. Ross scoffed at him,

“And I should have known a little gratitude was too much to ask for.” Ross did not seem all that offended by George’s ungratefulness though, too focused on checking the makeshift bandages around his stomach and neck. “Looks like the bleeding has stopped. You should eat something, I had the housekeeper bring you some soup. It will help.” Help with what, Ross never clarified, and George was pretty sure he was absolutely clueless. Nevertheless, he allowed Ross to adjust his head as gently as he could to sit up a bit straighter so he would not choke. Ross brought his wooden chair closer to the bed, taking the bowl of soup in his hand.

George watched Ross settle back in the chair, looking back and forth between him and the soup. He looked completely lost, not knowing whether he should give it to the man to figure out himself or if he should assist him. He finally decided on the latter, a stern look of hesitation and reluctance on his face as he spooned some of the broth and held it in front of George’s face.

When it became clear that Ross was not going to move any closer, George slowly leaned forward a bit and closed his lips over the spoon. The soup was simple and bland, obviously the work of a peasant woman with no style or experience in cuisine, but it was still warm and soothed his dry throat. 

“Is it good?” Ross’ voice was gruff with embarrassment. When George nodded though, he became visibly more relaxed and more inclined to feed him another spoonful. 

They worked their way through the soup in complete silence, George trying to relax and not get sick and Ross focused on not spilling anything while monitoring George’s condition. As they neared the end of it, George finally spoke up.

“So what exactly did you tell the maid, that you shot a man and he needs some soup?”

Ross glared at him, “I told her my wife was here, so there is no cause for suspicion.” If Ross did not know any better, he would say George was blushing now. Must have been the stuffiness of the room, or the heat of the soup returning color to his face. 

“That is, until a man walks out of the room. Once again, you have acted without any thought to the consequences and without the faintest plan.” 

The familiar prickling of annoyance that bubbled inside of Ross whenever George talked down to him started seeping into his mind, however it was not that intense seeing as his adversary was insulting him while laying injured in bed. He looked so frail and helpless, it made it easier to not to snap at him. “You’re in no condition to walk out of this room anytime soon, George. It will take at least three days I think.”

“Three days?!” George’s voice cracked with strain.

“It would be sooner, however you are a rather delicate man, so it will probably take longer,” he teased, not passing the opportunity to annoy the man back.

Now Ross was certain he saw a blush blooming across George’s cheeks. The blond raised his head higher, trying to keep what dignity he had intact, however it made the room spin quicker than he anticipated and the wound in his stomach screamed in protest. He fell back to the pilow and closed his eyes to try and stop the spinning. He heard Ross set the bowl back onto the nightstand before pulling the covers up to his shoulders. 

“Perhaps if you rest enough you will be fit sooner.”

Ross’ voice was gentle, as if trying to lull him to sleep, but George was still angry, “Elizabeth will find out. What will you tell her?”

“I can write to her if you wish, but I doubt she will be very happy with you challenging me to a foolish duel.”

“Nor you for accepting it and nearly killing me.” 

As much as Ross felt like strangling the man for his banter, the sight of him pale as a ghost with a bloody cravat tied around his neck stopped him in his tracks. He knew that Elizabeth would be furious if she found out, Demelza too. However he was not sure it was the threat of their disapproval that made him jump into action and save this infuriating man. There was something else, a feeling that stirred inside him when he saw George’s blood staining the grass that made him refuse to see him die. For now, he would call it guilt. 

“That is why I strongly suggest acting like everything is alright, and never mentioning this ever happened. Not to Elizabeth, nor Demelza. Can you keep a secret George, if not for me then for your own pride?” 

Ross counted to five, and when George still did not answer nor open his eyes, he checked his pulse at his wrist like he had seen Ennis do a thousand times. When he felt the faint beating of his heart, he felt slightly embarrassed at having checked at all, and decided he could finally step outside and take some air. George was asleep after all, and as much as he hated to admit it, deep down he knew he needed to think about this more and plan ahead, and figured a nice beer would help do just that.

When Ross left, George kept his eyes shut but let his mind wonder. What would Elizabeth say if she knew? Who would she be more concerned for, him or Ross? The fact the question even came to him filled him with contempt for the Poldark. He knew it was his promise of a future for Geoffrey Charles that pushed Elizabeth to marry him more than anything else, but still found himself disappointed and hurt when her eyes showed more life at the sound of Ross’ name than his. However, he supposed it went both ways. While he did care for Elizabeth greatly, in a way she was another representation of victory against Ross. By marrying her he had secured not only the love of Ross’ life, but control over the eldest and youngest remaining Poldarks and the Poldark manor itself. It was a huge blow to Ross, one he admitted he had enjoyed causing.

After all, Ross caused him so much pain, why could he not do the same?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God I am alive! Y'all have been so kind to leave comments and continue to read this, so I finally gathered enough motivation and time to make another chapter. With the new season out, it will deviate a LOT more from canon, but I will try to continue to keep everyone in character! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to comment with criticism, responses, and suggestions below :)


End file.
